My Emmylou
by zpplnchick
Summary: "Oh don't feel bad. I never have, since I got you, my Emmylou." Big ol' ball of Polivia fluff. Set sometime after 6B.


**Summary**: "_Oh don't feel bad. __I never have, __since I got you, __my Emmylou."_

**Author's Note**: This story is purely inspired by an incredible song I'd just come into contact with recently. You can find it on Youtube: Emmylou by Vance Joy.

I'm still cresting the wave of Fringe madness, so Polivia was still on my mind when I first heard the song, and it felt so _them_. They're that type of devestating happiness that you can feel in the center of your bones. The joy that is both heartbreaking and pure in its depths.

I've decided not to interpret the song literally in this story (which would make it a Peter &amp; Etta story...though that would be equally wonderful). In listening to Emmylou, I hear a man hoping to lighten a woman's suffering, if for just a bit, because of all that she means to him. It's what he wants to bring to her, to give back what she's given him.

**Disclaimer**: Simply put, I don't own anything. Not the show, not the characters, and certainly not the song.

* * *

_Oh if you're losing sleep..._  
_Oh if you're losing sleep, scared of shadows._  
_See it's just a chair, see the clothes hang there._  
_Oh don't go losing sleep, scared of shadows._

He wakes slowly, sleepily, content. His limbs loose after a night of fantastic sex and deep sleep. As his consciousness becomes aware of the warm, feminine, and sleeping body tucked closely against his, so do certain parts of his anatomy.

He is relaxed, but not entirely sated, it appears. He wants her again, like always.

Truthfully, he's hooked. To her sexy curves that he smooths along the palm of his hand. To her delicate scent that now permeates his bedding. To her warm and low laugh. To the light in her eyes that would enter her gaze whenever she'd spot him entering a room (that he'd actually begun to notice long before he was even able to put words to it...before she put meaning to it when she whispered "You belong with me," fretfully and frightened). But mostly, on just her. He is hooked on her complexities and idealism and the easy way she makes him feel right at home.

She never gives up on anything, least of all him, and he is immensely grateful.

_Oh don't feel bad._  
_I never have,_  
_since I got you, _  
_my Emmylou._

During those painful weeks when she'd had trouble looking him in the eye (at least not without a sense of abandonment and disappointment entering her gaze) after she'd returned (on her own, without any help from the ones she loves), he had gone over and over in his mind how he could have been so _stupid_. So blind by _his own _hubris_—_the very thing he admonished in his father.

The cards were all lined up, right in front of him, but he was too blinded by Olivia's easy smiles and new-found confidence to actually _see _the deck for what it was and realize what all the odd changes in her behavior meant: that she wasn't actually her. The woman sleeping in his bed and laughing with Walter wasn't the woman he'd spent the last two years watching, learning, and loving.

_You wear your socks to bed._  
_You wear your socks to bed, that's what I do._  
_Oh c'mon, sleepyhead, get yourself to bed._  
_Don't go losin', oh, the nighttime._

Getting that static-filled call from that strange fretful woman in the middle of the night hadn't just been a bucketful of icy water on his head. He'd been completely submerged into the depths of shock and terror. He felt hatred towards himself for never _seeing_ it and utter fear for the woman who held his heart, trapped in another universe, having gone through god knows what.

And when he _knew_... when he'd read her report of what had actually happened to her over there_—_the isolation, the experiments, the brain-washing, the black lines on her body showing what pieces of her would most _valuable_ to carve out_—_he'd felt sick. She was going through hell and he... nothing. Nothing could excuse the fact that while Olivia Dunham held him so dear to her heart that she pulled herself out of the forced psychosis of another's life, he couldn't even figure out that _perhaps_ the reason why the woman whom he was kissing had lighter eyes, an easier smile, and was more forgetful was because she wasn't the same person. The idea of a switch hadn't even occurred to him.

_Oh don't feel bad._  
_I never have,_  
_since I got you, _  
_my Emmylou._

After she'd come back, he had spent those weeks apart studying her. He once more learned how to appreciate the way she moved, the fierce conviction in her eyes, the rare smile pulled from her_—_the way those smiles would light up her eyes and fill his very being with a sense of ease. All the things he had previously taken for granted, he promised himself he never would again.

Though little sparks of hope would lighten the weight in his chest when she'd throw him a quick smile or he'd catch her watching him, he never let himself get too cocky. No matter how long it took, he'd _earn_ her trust and her devotion again. A relationship with Olivia Dunham wouldn't just be something he fell into. If she let him (eventually...when), _they _would be the result of commitment, trust, and fierce adoration.

And slowly, she did.

_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

Peter moves his hand down the length of her body, taking in every dip, every curve. Somehow, she had accepted him into her life again... into her heart.

He knows now, no matter what obstacles life throws at them (and considering their line of work, he knows there will be many), they are not only in it together for the long haul, but they have the power to make it back to each other.

He is her tether to comfort and reality in times of madness, and she is forever his source of strength and devotion.

_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

Slowly, aided by the feeling of Peter's wandering hands and the sunlight streaming through the open window, Oliva wakes and smiles into her pillow.

She feels a kiss pressed into the sensitive skin of her neck and a soft "I love you," whispered into her ear.

"Tryna get lucky again, Bishop?" she asks quietly as she turns in his arms.

Peter grins and waggles his eyebrows.

Olivia laughs and Peter kisses her again. "Among other things," he says low, quiet as he rubs his nose with hers, eyes closed in sleepy contentment.

_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

They seem to always have a looming threat ahead of them, and maybe they always will. Maybe that is _their_ fate, the fate of saviors.

Maybe Olivia's niggling fears that she will never really get normal aren't just that: niggling fears. Maybe the struggle of her life was set in motion the day she'd walked into that daycare and had her brain pumped full of Cortexiphan.

Maybe the struggle of his started even earlier, when he'd gotten sick from an illness with no known cure, forcing an alternate version of his father to tear the very fabric of the universe to rescue him.

Whatever the reason, they'd found each other, time and time again. A slow partnership_—_one with beginnings in wariness that had morphed into admiration, respect, and love_—_had built over two years that had, by now, become unbreakable.

Fate threw them struggles.

But life has given them strength and the conviction to fight it.

_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

Olivia reaches up her hand and threads it through his hair, smiling softly at his bedhead and droopy eyes. They come together easily and lips part in soft kisses.

Just as things begin to get heated and her body comes alive from those wandering hands, his stomach growls loudly.

Olivia smirks. "Rain check?"

_Oh, don't feel bad..._  
_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

The head into the kitchen, stumbling slightly since Peter's trailing behind Olivia, his arms wrapped around her and his lips attached to her neck.

Hunger may get him out of bed, but only dire circumstances would make him leave her side at the moment.

Olivia giggles softly as Peter nibbles on her earlobe. "Peter! Do you want these pancakes or not?"

_I never have.._  
_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

"Not," he grumbles as she reaches for a large mixing bowl out of the cupboard. She can't reach it so he helps her, a long limb reaching up and grabbing the green bowl she'd stolen from Peter's house three weeks prior, before setting it on the counter and refocusing his attention on her.

He grabs her waist and spins her around, delighting in her soft squeak of surprise. "Gimme one kiss and I'll be good. And make it a good one."

Olivia grins before meeting his lips, kissing the smirk away and leaving him breathless. She pulls back and smiles at the soft look on his face. "Make us some coffee?"

Peter nods slightly as he lets her go and shuffles towards the coffee maker.

_Since I got you..._  
_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._

It is everything he envisioned. Everything she envisioned, the way they sit together on a Sunday morning, eating pancakes cooked in funny shapes, drinking coffee, and arguing whether 32-down is _bourgeois_ or _wholesome_. With only one letter filled in, the third to last _o_, it's hard to say. Not that they mind.

Miraculously, they aren't called in by Broyles to investigate some gruesome death or mysterious happening that could end the world. They end up taking Walter to the park, laying on the grass together and reading while Peter's father delights in the swing-set.

It _is_ the perfect day, just as Peter says before he kisses her senseless. Olivia doesn't know what it is, per say, but she can feel Peter's adoration for her and the strength of his devotion.

It's in his soft kisses against her cheek, the light pressure of his hand against her back, the way he makes sure to get the brand of coffee she likes when they stop at the grocery store. It's so ingrained in his actions towards her that by the time they're lying together in bed that night, moving towards bliss and he whispers "I love you" in her ear once more, she could swear to heaven and back that she's never felt more happy.

_Oh, now my Emmylou..._  
_You are loved. You are loved._  
_You are loved. You are loved._


End file.
